


mingled into one angel

by chipofmint



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, Altean Lance (Voltron), Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Paris, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Europe, Galra Keith (Voltron), M/M, Oil as Lube, Parkour, Rebellion, Rooftop Adventures, Sneaking Around, Sneaking Out, The Black Plague, blood but in a medieval way, klance but like disney, oil was historically used as lube I HAVE RESEARCHED, romeo and juliet situation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-18 03:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11283225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chipofmint/pseuds/chipofmint
Summary: "W-what are you looking at?" Keith asked, his hands grasping the wood of the ladder behind him."Your markings," Lance blurted, blinking. "They look like clouds from a night sky."Keith's heart was full to bursting as he took another hard swallow. Lance usually brought out his words, his angry words, but in this moment he was speechless.Lance cupped Keith's cheek. "Can I kiss you?"—Keith has rung the bells in Notre Dame his whole life as a half-breed ward of Lord Lotor, but on his 22nd summer, he decides to go out and see the world. Lance, the Altean dancer, has no idea what's about to hit him.





	1. Chapter 1

A few strides, bare feet padding against cold limestone, and with a grunt and a leap Keith was soaring down the side of Notre Dame. Claws raked against stone and copper, and a purple-mottled hand expertly grabbed a gargoyle jutting out from the tower. 

This felt like flying. And Keith loved nothing more than to fly.

He hung there, gazing up the wall. Where the eyes of saints were curved like spheres stuck in their sockets, the gargoyles gazed out from black gouged holes. The water of the Seine gushed along lazily below them, but their eyes were forever fixed on the golden horizon. Keith adjusted his hold on his gargoyle and moved one sure foot to balance against the limestone.

His skin, dyed purple and white like acid had eaten away at the violet night-sky, contrasted the stone beneath him. The slabs were wet from rain the day before. Keith barely watched where he was climbing, feeling for handholds in horned stone beasts and locking a finger in a gargoyle’s eye socket.

The statue did little to defend from the invasion. Of course, the statue hadn’t done much to defend its home when the Galra had descended from the sky a hundred years before, so why would it stop a young man from climbing it? Its bat wings would stay forever frozen in mid-flight. Keith pitied it in that sense.

He was garbed in threadbare, black clothing, ill-suited for such climbing, but Keith didn't mind. A summer breeze blessedly blew his hair out of his face, and he continued up towards the pinnacle of the tower.

Keith clung to the edge of one of the flying buttresses that flanked the sides of the cathedral and looked into the sun.

His face was as mottled as his hands. One eye shone golden with flecks of dark; the other held a shifting midnight color with specks of bright yellow. The lighter eye was surrounded by splotches of varying shades of purple, and on the opposite side of his face spread a patch of whitest skin, as if it had never seen the daylight. To the common eye, it looked like some dark disease was consuming him from the outside in, eating away at his flesh, but in actuality, his body was whole and hale.

Keith’s nose twitched almost imperceptibly as the smell of baking bread wafted through the breeze. Better than the smell of the filthy Seine, that’s for certain. And underneath the _eau de boulangerie_ was the unmistakable [1], unforgettable smell of summer.

Squinting, he tilted his head at a cloud, small and puckered on the horizon. A storm would come within a day.

The city was lively, even for a weekend morning. Keith couldn’t help the emotive breath that left his lungs, desire warming the air around him. He watched the people, like ants, scurrying below him and wondered what it would be like – to feel the stiff skirts brush against him as they passed in the street, how different bread smelt there instead of miles in the sky, what the cobblestone streets felt like beneath his feet.

His furry ears rose away from their normal position against the side of his head, pivoting in the direction of music. He could hear the sound of what he believed to be Altean stringed instruments and...what were they called? Tambourines?

And then he immediately flattened his ears back down. He didn’t like the tufted points. They marked him as different from common Galra, because they were black, and from humans and Alteans, since they weren’t made of cartilage. His stomach lurched at the unwelcome reminder that they existed, that they were real. That they invited calumny and consternation from those below.

The wind blew, and Keith forced his emotions to wash away in the warm sensation.

He watched a street urchin—Altean, with a headscarf tucked behind pointed ears and lined with golden beads—speaking to passerby carrying baskets of the day's wares. He was pleading with one, “Dear sir, could you spare a coin?”

Even from here Keith could see how emaciated the child was, thin and wan underneath billowing fabrics, and he frowned. It was an unfair situation for the child since there was no way for him to work his way out of his poverty. No store owner—human or Galra—would employ an Altean.

It could be worse for the kid, though. Half-breed abominations like Keith, rare as an eclipsed moon, were killed on sight.

Keith had mixed feelings about Lord Lotor saving him those twenty-some-odd years ago. On one hand, he was safe as long as he stayed in the walls of the cathedral. On the other, he lived a life in shadows hidden from the light. It’s a dark and lonely life, he mused, and then he scoffed at himself.

 _That’s a little dramatic_ , he thought, and with a grunt he swung his body up higher, higher, to touch the clouds.

Spotting a large tent and something like a stage in the middle of the city square, Keith dared to get closer to the edge of the wall to take a better look on the sunnier side of the building. The eastern light was bright in his eyes.

Keith almost fell from his precarious perch when a pointed cough sounded in the alcove below. Keith’s head and ears swiveled to the side. Thace leaned out, his Galra uniform rattling in the wind as he poked his head between the columns lining the catwalk.

“Keith.” The name was harsh on Thace’s tongue. His plain golden eyes narrowed.

“Thace.” With little to no effort, Keith clambered down and swung onto the catwalk Thace stood on, shadows forming lines over their faces as the light shone through the columns.

Thace towered over Keith, stern with deep purple sideburns. His voice rumbled with authority, “It would be best if you went back to your quarters.”

Keith bristled, hackles on his neck rising. “Thace, no one–”

“Keith.” The single word spoke of warning. “This is not a discussion. It’s an order.”

His hand pointing towards the bell tower was firm, but his eyes were sad and gentle. Keith understood Thace had to do his job. He was a Galra soldier first.

“You know what would happen if anyone saw you.” Keith crossed his arms over his chest, glaring even as Thace spoke gently to him, “The edict against half-breeds has been in place for decades. If someone saw you here, not even Lord Lotor could defend you. And you know Archbishop Ulaz would mourn you as well.”

Keith’s ears lowered from the chiding, but his expression stayed angry and firm.

“Fine.” Keith turned on his heel, not glancing back to see if Thace tailed him to ensure he followed instructions.

The half-Galra made as if to start climbing back up to his bell tower above, squinting against the sun. He chanced a glance back at the catwalk. When he could tell Thace hadn't lingered, Keith changed his course. His claws sunk into the carvings of a tower as he moved around the structure to the east side, where the longer part of the roof stretched in front of him. The burn in his shoulders was a welcome relief from his frustration at being found once again. Lotor would know of his trespassing soon enough.

Swinging like a child on a low tree branch, Keith flung himself off the tiny ledge, landing on all fours on the copper roof with an "oof."

Keith hissed as his knees brushed the metal, hot from the sun. His movements lacked the finesse from before as emotions controlled his bones. It took so little to change his awe at the sights of Paris to bitterness. All he needed was the reminder of Thace's frowning face. He did not belong out there.

Keith moved stealthily along the roof, footsteps barely making a sound as he traversed the copper shingles. Each step was mindless, calculated so long ago that his muscles had memorized the movement. A look left, right, left again, and Keith hooked his hands into the gutter. Remnants of rainwater wet the tips of his fingers. Keith flipped his body, pushing himself off the roof and hanging down above a lower balcony.

A breath, a count of three, two, one, and Keith let himself fluidly fall and landed on his feet.

This fall was more fluid than the first on the roof, and the cold stone was a welcome relief. A few long strides and he was back in the shadows, the shade making him shiver.

He made his way to one of the smaller series of glass window panels—of course, small as in only _slightly_ larger than a full man's height—and pressed his ear to a segment. The outside of the lead-lined glass was dark, revealing none of the color inside. He waited to see if he could detect any loud sounds or vibrations, then snuck a claw into the loose side of a panel and pried it open just enough to see the sanctuary below. No priests stood in view.

With a released breath he pulled at the square panel, part of a calliope of colors that formed the praying hands of a bored-looking human saint. Up and out went the glass, and Keith slipped a leg inside its small frame. For a moment, he perched on the window frame, supported by stone, then he lowered himself down to an outcropping of limestone right below and carefully replaced the glass he had removed.

Every movement was exact — a lesson learned years ago from a stained glass panel that still had yet to be replaced. Keith only breathed once the piece was back within its lead sleeve, sun shining through it to color Keith's splotched face red.

Once, as a child, he had marveled at the rainbow colors of the glass. But now they were just another damned reminder of his place. Hidden behind the dark opacity of the windows, he could wistfully peer out, and no one could see in. Keith was safe.

He turned away, crouching down and moving towards one of the upper stone arches. Grabbing the arch's bottom sill, he clambered downwards, hopping on light feet to rest on the tiny edge of an engraved cornice .[2] He hugged the top of the column with his arms and legs and inched in the direction of voices.  
  
"Well, I think they should let us go," he heard one black robed altar boy whisper, nose scrunched up in a frown as he lit the candles before an altar piece.  
  
His younger brother was beside him, with tawny hair and a rare pair of rivet spectacles.[3] The short brother turned, so Keith could see more of his expression, his frames glinting in the sunlight.  
  
"They didn't let us last year," the small one said, adjusting the glasses and lighting some of the bottom candles his brother had missed. Their matching light brown heads shone in the rectangular window in the small chapel, huddled away from the center of the cathedral.  
  
"But this is the last time I can! I'm soon to be ordained!" For an older brother, the boy sure knew how to whine. His petulant pout was parried by a glare from his younger brother.  
  
"Which is a terrible idea," the younger one—Pidge, Keith thought—muttered.  
  
"Hey!" The older boy swatted his brother with the back of his free hand, half-jokingly. Keith had never spoken to them, but their arguments were good listening material.  
  
"Matt, you'd make an awful priest. Shiro is too nice to say so, but it's true."  
  
"That's not the point. The point is we should be allowed to see the Festival of Colors. Come with me!"  
  
"I don't want to go into a huge crowd just to watch Alteans dancing around."  
  
"Come on, Pidge. We get to wear _masks_ —"  
  
"Nope. Not happening."  
  
Their voices echoed in the tiny chapel, but over those hushed whispers, Keith could hear a deep burgundy thrum. In the distance, the reverberating, repetitive and full tones of the clergy had begun.  
  
"Kyrie eleison." The words were elongated, and muddled by the resonant stone walls, but the music was clear and colored as beautifully as the window behind Keith. "Christe eleison."[ **4**]  
  
Keith stood, allowing his breath to slow before it caught in his throat with a choke. The priests are singing. Shit– shit– _shit_ . He sprinted, legs hardly touching the ground as he hopped from truss to beam. His landings were loud, but he didn't care for the sound of his footsteps or the slam of the door to the bell tower. He ran.  
  
"God damned noon prayer," he whispered desperately to himself, feet slapping against stone and arms moving in time. "How did I forget about Sext."  [5]  
  
His lungs burned as he took the stairs two, three, four at a time, wood shavings flying up under his feet. Stone stairs turned to a wooden ladder the higher he climbed, and without even checking the position of the sun, Keith leapt into the belfry. The afternoon light glinted off the hanging brass, but Keith ignored the glare in his eyes and ran for the rope. Twelve powerful tugs, taking all the energy out of his body, and the wooden beams shook with sound.  
  
The bells clanged above him and his ears pressed tightly against his head. Twelve massive bongs from Emmanuel, in the center, and the three Maries chimed their dulcet tones under the time.[6] Finally, finally, as they rang, Keith allowed himself to breathe and sat to watch his bells swing and sway.

He pondered what the Holt siblings had mentioned. A festival? With masks? He’d seen festivals in the square below year after year, but never paid much attention, choosing instead to hide deep within the quiet cathedral.

Keith closed his eyes and made the connection — he _had_ heard something about this, a celebration of the longest day of summer. If you revealed your face at the festival on that day, it could mean bad luck in the harvest to come. Not that Keith believed in any of that shit.

Rubbing his face, he looked up as the hammers inside the bells continued to clang away, gradually slowing to a stop. Masks, hm?

He might be able to go outside in the daylight for once if no one saw his face. His mottled skin itched at the thought of staying cooped up in the recesses of this bell tower. Perhaps if he convinced him, Lord Lotor would—

“Keith!” a clear voice rang, growing louder as footsteps echoed up the ladder to his room below. Keith groaned and descended. “Keith, come here.”  
  
The skin behind his neck twitched at the commanding tone, but Keith hurried down the steps and railings from the bells to the little area where he entertained guests. Guests meaning Lord Lotor.

The commander of Paris stood much taller than Keith, Galra pure-bred with violet skin. His hair was plaited down the back of his black uniform. He looked down his nose at Keith, chest moving underneath purple embroidery, but otherwise, he seemed unaffected from the demanding climb. His golden eyes turned into slits.  
  
Keith instinctively drew himself to his full height. 

“Yes, Lord Lotor?”

“You know why I’m here, boy.” He always called him that even though Keith had long since grown into manhood. Keith just remained silent, keeping his eyes down to hide his instinctual glare.

“Did you think you could climb the walls unnoticed? I’m surprised a passing sentry didn’t shoot you down.” The commander scoffed to himself, looking bemused at his own suggestion.  
  
Keith grit his teeth. Thace had done his job, reporting back to Lotor.

“I feed you, I clothe you, I protect you, and yet time and time again you repay me with this...” He examined his claws for a moment, then said with a sneer, “Insolence. Have I not done enough for you?”

“I owe you my life,” Keith tried to say the words patiently. “You know that.”

Lotor scanned his face, eyebrows furrowing as he saw something not to his liking. “ _You_ forget that too often, ungrateful wretch. Useless. Worse than the Altean vermin screaming at our doors.”  
  
Keith flinched, but his sharp tongue stayed in his mouth where it belonged even as his cheeks burned.

“And you can’t even serve me properly.” He paused, bringing a claw to scrape against the soft skin under Keith’s chin. “The bells were late again today.”

The claw pressed softly onto Keith’s throat as he swallowed. “I was speaking to Thace.”

Lotor withdrew his hand. “I have it on good authority that you spoke to Thace long before noon. Half-breed, don’t bother lying to me.”

“I– I wanted to look at the festival,” Keith blurted in a rare moment of honesty. It was useless to lie to Lotor, but that didn’t stop Keith from often trying. “I was thinking if…if I wore a mask—”

He saw Lotor’s thinned lips and knew it was for naught.

“You know as well as I do that if you set foot in those streets, you would die. If I hadn’t given you pity on the winter’s night I found you abandoned, you would have died. And you are even more useless to me dead.” Keith hunched, making himself smaller at the words.  
  
“Half-breeds are forbidden by my father, and for good reason. They are disease carriers and less than the Altean scum. You are lucky enough the disease only left you disgusting to the eyes.” He gave Keith’s dusty garb a cursory glance. “You are something that shouldn’t exist. The spawn of a Galra who was stupid enough to lower themselves to a baseborn slut.”  
  
The half-breed shrunk down, staring at his feet as Lotor towered over him. He took Keith’s jaw in one hand to adjust his head, forcing him to look up into his golden eyes.  
  
“You are forbidden to even consider attending. Just,” Lotor sighed and closed his eyes, pinching at the bridge of his nose. There was a sharpness to his voice. “Go ring the bells at Nones.[7] You wouldn’t want to almost miss it… Again.”  
  
He straightened Keith’s high collar, a nail scratching the side of Keith’s neck and leaving a weeping cut behind. Nothing in Lotor’s face registered the movement, rather, he scanned Keith’s patterned cheeks.  
  
“Have you considered covering it up? It would make you more edifying to look at, you know.” He pinned Keith with a calculating look. “Of course powders wouldn’t cover up this infestation in daylight, but in the cathedral it might just work.”  
  
Containing his embarrassment to the clench of his hands, Keith bristled. As a parting gift, Lotor brushed the dusty shoulder of Keith’s uniform and turned to depart, his boots clacking against the wood.  
  
“Think about it,” he called lightly over his shoulder, disappearing down the stairs the way he came.  
  
Now Keith felt exposed even in the darkness of his alcove, the only light trickling from the balcony outside his opened room. He stood there stiffly for a while, trembling.  
  
He knew Lotor was right. Alteans had brought a dark plague with them when they fled to Earth alongside the ruling Galrans. It was the mixed-blood of Galra and Alteans that most effectively passed the disease onto humans and Alteans alike. It was unthinkable for _any_ two races to mix, birthing dangerous mongrels.  
  
But the reality of the situation did nothing to assuage the clenching, desperate pain in his chest. Keith felt like an animal that needed a hunt. Maybe he was foolish to think he could get out for a little while and cause no harm. Who was he kidding? He ran a hand through his long dark hair, clutching at the roots. He was most certainly foolish.  
  
The frustration at his foolishness only fueled his next, impulse-driven movements. Keith stalked over to his craft table, clearing away the wood chips from his whittling with a swipe of his sleeve. He searched in his supply crates for something—anything—and landed on a sturdy black fabric. His trusty knife, held always on the back of his belt, expertly cut a winged shape with eyeholes.  
  
He used a needle and thread to stitch a gold ribbon around the border of the mask and pulled out a red scarf to secure over his mouth. Black gloves slipped over his patterned hands, leaving fingertips exposed. His shoes slipped onto his cold feet.  
  
_Y_ _ou know what?_ Keith thought.  _Fuck it._  
  
Huffing softly, Keith tucked his knife into his belt, slung a cloak over his head, and tied his new mask to his face. He looked out his window, calculating the leaps he would have to take.  
  
A few strides, boots slamming against wood and limestone, and he was airborne once more. Keith descended towards the colors and sounds of the festival, and did not look back.

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1eau de boulangerie – literally, “bakery water;” eau de ___ is often used to describe perfumes.[return to text]  
> 2 Cornice - ornamented top part of a column [ return to text ]  
> 3Rivet spectacles - they look like [this](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/e3/5d/0c/e35d0c188d7c2f167655c4b5a9129220.jpg) and are some early versions of glasses that were worn around this time period[return to text]  
> 4"Kyrie eleison… Christe eleison." - “Lord have mercy... Christ have mercy.” A common chant or prayer in the Catholic Church. Some may recognize the words from several musical motifs in Death Note.[return to text]  
> 5Sext – The Liturgy of the Hours (also known as the Divine Office) is the official set of daily prayers of the Catholic Church. Sext, or Midday Prayer, is the sixth hour and is prayed at noon.[return to text]  
> 6Bell names – These bell names are spliced together from the film and the real Cathedral. Emmanuel is the largest bell currently in the tower, and is the one used to mark time. The “three Maries” are a reference to the film: “Jean Marie, Anne Marie, and Louise Marie. Triplets, you know.”[return to text]  
> 7Nones – Part of the Divine Office. Nones, or Mid-afternoon Prayer, is the ninth hour and is prayed at 3 PM.[return to text]
> 
> _Rating will change as the fic progresses._
> 
> come scream with us on tumblr @ [breadpoetsociety](https://breadpoetsociety.tumblr.com) and [chipofmintchocolate](https://chipofmintchocolate.tumblr.com) and on twitter @ [breadpoetsociet](https://twitter.com/breadpoetsociet) and [chipofmint](https://twitter.com/chipofmint).


	2. Chapter 2

Keith descended with the sun at his back, centered in the cloudless sky.

“As long as I’m back in two hours,” he reminded himself, claws clicking against the metal gutters that lined the rooftop. His black cloak billowed around him as he dropped several stories onto a lower balcony.

For a breath, he stopped, worrying his lip and nodding to himself. He could just go down there and get back in time for Nones. He was okay. No one ever had to know.

His fingers, covered by gloves only up the third knuckle, grasped tightly against stone as he clambered his way down, finding footholds in cracks and carved crevices. It was just past noon, and the sun beat down on Notre Dame from its highest point. Keith still found the shadows, clinging to the building and sneaking to the darkest, quietest side—where he knew no one would be watching.

Another fall, just as graceful as the last, and Keith was a few feet from the ground. He could see persistent grass growing between damp cobblestones—the shade here kept it cool enough for the water to remain. In the distance, Keith could hear the festival growing more boisterous. Performances would start soon.

Keith weaved his body in between two pillars and used a saint’s crown as a handhold. His body flipped and—he was hanging inches above the ground. The cobbles of Paris. Each finger unhooked one by one, and the half-Galra dropped from his perch, feeling _this_ stone beneath his feet for the first time.

It was familiar and new all at once.

Keith was hit with a rush of ecstatic energy and breathed in, feeling a tingle down in his bones. He couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief, and released a hot, happy breath under his full-face mask. He let himself enjoy a moment—only a moment—of this unadulterated joy, and then Keith was rushing towards the town square.

“Oh,” the word slipped from Keith’s mouth as he was thrust into a colorful throng. He’d never seen so _much_ before in his life. He tried to tally everything he was experiencing, memorize it. Maybe he could carve the scenes in his tower on cold and desolate nights.

The town square was encircled with large, canvas-covered wagons that the Alteans used as transportation and storehouses for their wares. Lotor and his mania had pushed Alteans underground and to the outskirts of town, and yet their pointed ears seemed to be at the heart of this event. Every other person was garbed in traditional Altean wear—all gauzy rainbows and gold-lined headscarves and jangling jewelry that accentuated every graceful move.

Keith’s nose perked up as a warm summer breeze wafted through the air: omelettes, fresh bread, flowers, sweat, and the brine from the river all mixed into an intoxicating perfume. Cymbals crashed loud in the distance, and Keith’s ears perked up instinctively under his hood. His breath stopped for a second while Keith prayed no one noticed.

Alteans, humans, Galrans—everyone was blended in a cocktail of color and sound. Each group was dressed splendidly, with Galrans favoring purple and humans favoring green. It was the Alteans that shone the brightest in every shade imaginable: red, blue, yellow, pink. And everyone—blessedly, _everyone_ —was wearing a mask.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a litter surrounded by Galra soldiers. It must have been transporting Lotor to the middle of the festivities. Thace and a man with a shining golden arm—probably the fabled “Champion” himself—walked alongside it. Though a small window in the litter, the sliver of Lotor’s face looked disdainful and bored, chin propped up his purple hand. Keith stiffened and kept a wide berth. He was not taking any chances.

A pair of children, human by the look of them, chased each other in the throng and almost tripped Keith. The one girl screamed and pulled at the other boy’s mask in retaliation for some unseen wrong. But before she could properly tug, her father dragged her away, lecturing her on “giving bad luck to others’ crops” while she clung to his chest. With a woeful sinking head, she apologized to the boy. Keith turned his attention back to the chaos in front of him.

The clamor of color should have been too much, too strong, but Keith drank it in excitedly. The cathedral has color, certainly, but it was so muted and dependent on the sun, and his quarters were all wood and stone. So this canvas of brown—of burlap, and dirt, and stone—painted with the shifting blues and yellows and reds and pinks, fabrics shining with jewels and gold, false mixed in with real…it was a confusing and wonderful dream.

Someone bumped into Keith, and without thinking he reached for his knife. His fingers relaxed as soon as he realized it was an accident. Keith was on edge, fearful of anything that might catch his cloak or tear off his mask. But the fear was forced out by wonder.

The man who bumped him was a head taller than Keith and two heads broader, robed in gold from head to toe. He glittered like the water of the Seine at noon but brighter, brighter than any coin or gold relic Keith had seen. Rather than a scarf like most Alteans, he wore a cylindrical cap on top of his messy dark curls, his brown eyes smiling as he passed by the children Keith had seen earlier. Without much thought to where his feet were going, Keith trailed after this ray of sunlight.

Tents brushed up on Keith as he walked, and burlap grazed past his fingers. Shadow, light, shadow, light, as he wove in and around and under different canopies after the yellow figure. There was a roasted quality in the air from some sort of nuts, earthy and sweet.

Keith took a moment to look up, gauging the sun in the sky—almost 1 p.m—and he was caught again by the bright clothes waving above him, people drying their technicolor garments in the warm summer air. He looked again for the golden man, but he had disappeared.   
  
Paper flapped on buildings—posters advertising a performance: “Lancelot Lumineux! Rendez-vous à 1 d'après-midi”.[1] Keith scoffed and continued on, trying to resist the urge to buy the skewered meat that smelled so enticing.

Keith could barely hear his own thoughts under the cacophony of the festival. A muddle of languages made the square a veritable Tower of Babel: French, both human and Altean dialects, and the old Galran language of Tier Zunge floated through the air.[2] All the words were unintelligible underneath the constant stream of music.

Keith drank in this overwhelmed feeling like wine. He was so used to the quiet, ponderous nature of the church—sure, the bells were loud, but they rang the same tones every day. The chanting was the same, and the birds were the same, and the silence was the same.

All of this singing and yelling and cheering and jeering was so _new_. It stressed Keith, scared him, and enraptured him in so much wonder. Keith wished this single moment would never end.

But it did, and Keith continued to wander, coming towards more covered tents circling a stage.

There was a ring of children nearby, who had shaken off their parents and snatched enough snacks to feed Keith for a week. They were playing with ribbons, barrel hoops, marbles—anything they could get their hands on. Some were singing, and Keith’s flattened ears were barely able to make out the words over the din:

_Raven hair and yellow eye,_

_Half of purple then you die._

_Purple splotches, ashes' breath,_

_Lay those halflings all to rest._

They giggled as they fell to the ground in the last verse, small hands clasped. It felt like a shard of ice had cracked Keith’s ribs, and Keith found it hard to breathe for a moment. Shivering, he checked his mask and clutched his cloak tighter. _Fuck_ nursery rhymes.

Keith forced his ears to focus on the jingling of bells and the strum of Altean instruments but the children’s words were etched in his mind. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the echo, and it was a moment before he realized his eyes were closed as he walked forward.

“Oh,” was all he said when he heard a voice calling out a warning cry, and his boot caught on something unseen. He yelped as he floundered, looking to grab onto anything to keep from falling. His claws ripped through burlap and gauzy fabric but nothing stopped Keith from toppling into another warm body. He heard an “oof” as he collided into the figure and brought them both stumbling to the ground.

"Hey, hey!" the person yelled. Keith had the man pinned underneath him, hands on either side of bony hips, and he scrambled to stand as quickly as he could. He checked to make sure his mask was still in place, and noticed his hood had fallen back.

"Jesus, watch where you're tripping," the man was muttering, dusting himself off. He was half-dressed. Red fabric cuffed by gold at the ankle flowed up the man's muscled, long legs. The flowing chiffon had slits up the side and an ornate jeweled belt—and now a sizable rip down the right side courtesy of Keith.

Otherwise, the man was shirtless, muscles tense under tan skin, and Keith could see the rest of the costume thrown onto a stool behind him. Keith continued tracing up the man's body with his eyes, noting a gold circlet around his head, when he was struck by wide blue eyes staring curiously at him. "Whoa, what are you trying to hide in that getup?"

"W-what?" Keith felt his hackles raising but willed himself to stay calm. Barely. He noticed the man had swipes of luminescent blue under his eyes, and they were matched by markings at his hipbones. Those sky-blue eyes continued to peer into Keith's dark and gold ones. Embarrassment flooded his stomach.

"The whole mask situation," the man said, gesturing to his own face. He was oddly friendly, and turned towards a cracked mirror in the corner of the warm tent. Keith realized he had something in his hand, reaching for his eye with a masterful touch. "It's really—Jesus fuck! My eyeliner!"

"Your... eyeliner," Keith repeated. He then recognized the black line on the man’s eyes as kohl, now smudged in a streak to the left side. Keith felt like he should feel remorseful, but frankly the man still made the make-up mess beautiful. It was more annoying than anything.

"Oh, tits. I'm supposed to be out there in—" and the taller man looked down and whipped towards Keith with rage in his eyes. His hands gesticulated wildly with every word. "You fucked up my eyeliner. _And_ you ripped my pants. Get the hell out of my tent!"

"Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—" Keith tried to explain himself, though he wasn't sure why he bothered. Something about this man hammered at something within him, and Keith couldn't tell if the thrum was good or bad.

"Yeah, yeah, that's what they all say," the man tried to push Keith out of the tent by the shoulders, but only succeeded in making Keith trip over a tambourine, which filled the tent with its chatter. He was a dancer, Keith realized, as he saw other costumes. "Just get out!"

"I said I was sorry, why are you being such an ass about it?" Keith couldn't help but to mutter. He searched for an exit. The dancer had only gestured towards the way Keith came, but he was pretty certain those claw-shredded fabrics were not the actual way in or out.

"Hey, watch it. I’m not afraid to give you the plague," the man's voice held a joke only he found funny in its bitterness. “I’ll breathe on your hairy ass.”

Keith's eyebrows furrowed, and his mask grew hot as the skin under it flushed red. "Fuck off."

"Just— Get your ass and your crusader haircut the hell out of my tent. Jesus." The man was exasperated now and dropped the black pencil in his hand. Two steps and he was pulling layers of the tent back to reveal the main thoroughfare of the festival again. Keith rushed out and pulled his hood back up again, peering back only to see the burlap of the tent fall to hide the dancer from view. Keith scoffed and followed the crowd, heading towards the main stage.

Keith’s stomach plummeted into the catacombs beneath the streets when he saw a familiar face again, perched on a dark throne on the outskirts of the congregation. Lotor was within spitting distance, covered by a dark purple canopy and flanked by the Thace, Captain of the Notre Dame Guard, as well as the Champion. Keith snuck his way deeper into the crowd and hid among the technicolor throng.

An Altean man—the same one he was tailing before, Keith realized—was standing in the center of the stage and speaking with a warm, booming voice. Everything about him was as yellow as Keith remembered, from his large shirt to the headband with gold coins hanging off of it, to the warm sunshine that seemed to pour out of his eyes and the flaxen swipes beneath them. His large hands, fingers displaying gold rings, gestured grandly to the center of the stage.

“Come one, come all!” He was yelling, honey voice carrying over the crowd. “Come see the finest dancer in all of Paris. Making his entrance… here is _la Lancelot_!”

He threw his fist down on the last word and the crowd gasped—the huge man disappeared in a puff of smoke, and the purple vapor cleared to reveal a lean, lithe man garbed in red and jangling from head to toe.  

Keith breathed out a disbelieving laugh and thought to himself, _No way. It’s the jerk from the tent!_ No one around him seemed to pay his realization any mind: every gaze was locked onto the dancer’s fluid movements and mesmerizing eyes.

Keith could see the small tear in his pants as “la Lancelot” rotated to the side, and he almost felt pity. The rest of the outfit was flawless: red gossamer fabric framed his lean legs, and his bare feet were decorated in gold jewelry. The man’s tan midriff was bared to tease the lines of blue markings at his hip bones, but his arms and part of his chest were covered in the same red fabric that draped over his legs and tied around his head. The look was finished with the dancer’s version of a mask. Gold coins linked together to make a veil of musical chainmail, and the man’s cocky grin could be seen flashing through.

He started in a pose with his arms outstretched, thin red shawl rising to conceal his face and toned chest. The audience held its breath as he stilled. Keith’s irritation unwillingly dissipated, and then… the music began.

The pounding of drums and the trill of tambourines played in sync as he stepped one foot forward, the bangles jangling on a lithe ankle. With a cat-like smile, he brought his hips twisting into movement. And then he began to spin, the veil circling around him like butterfly wings as he twirled, arms extended. Through the billowing fabric, his eyes flashed and his hips undulated. He looked like a tropical bird about to take flight.

Keith, against his volition but along with the audience, leaned forward. When it seemed like the dancer couldn't twist faster, a crescendo sounded in the music, and he flung the red fabric behind him into the audience, where hands scrabbled to grab purchase of it.

Even as a red corner brushed his face, Keith’s eyes stayed fixed on the stage, where the dancer’s oiled lower back shone in the noonday sun. When stringed and fluted instruments sang with the drums, “Lancelot’s” hands floated to his sides, following the back and forth sway of his hips.

His shoulders rolled in sinuous gestures as his hips shook in ecstasy. The curve of his spine alone, bending in snake-like movements, could have held Keith’s attention for a year. He scowled at the thought, face warming. The dancer turned a foot out as he gyrated, his leg showing more skin through the slits down the side. The people around Keith had begun to hoot and clap in time with the music, prompting Lancelot to throw a wicked smile over his brown shoulder. The gold of his mask shimmered with the movement.

He began rotating his hips, snaking himself to face forward. His movements were precise and fluid like water pouring out of a tap, drawing Keith in with every gesture. Lancelot’s body thrummed with energy as the barely-toned muscles of his stomach rolled and undulated, his back bending with the movement, and he gracefully moved his hands like waves of the ocean. His hips continued to roll and jerk from side to side. Even his chest went along with his movements, as he lifted it up to the sky and shimmied like he was born to dance this way.

The jerk’s stomach rolled to the tune of fingers plucking stringed instruments. His hands were palm out, also moving in mesmerizing and sharp gestures at the wrist, reflecting the keen excitement in blue eyes.

That blue gaze framed with gold looked out into his audience, scanning as if he was looking for something. To most it would appear like he was continuing to focus on his dance.

But Keith— Keith could pinpoint the moment Lancelot noticed him in the second row of the crowd. _Oh shit._

The red-garbed dancer grinned as if he had eaten the world and found it to his liking.

“Ladies and gentlefolk, I’m in need of a volunteer!” he called, giving a particularly sinuous hip thrust to the screaming crowd. “Someone with a foul mouth and even worse taste in fashion…” he pretended to suddenly discover Keith, extending a pointed finger in his direction as his hips trembled to the beat. “Ah, you sir!” Keith gulped as Lance sashayed his way to be the edge of the stage.

Tan hands reached for Keith and tugged at his cape, grasping the scratchy fabric with insistent fingers. Even as Keith tried to back up into the crowd, they betrayed him, pushing him up on stage and into the dancer's arms.  
  
Those hips swayed sinfully too close to Keith now, and the dancer teasingly pulled Keith's hood back with deft fingers. Every sound was muffled as Keith's ears hugged tight against his head, mostly out of fear. Keith reached for his knife. The cold metal was frozen in his half-trembling hands.  
  
The man was maybe an inch taller than Keith—two at most—but with that sultry smile and those sensual twists, it felt like he was towering over him. The dancer’s half-clothed chest brushed Keith’s hidden one. Heat emanated in waves off Lancelot’s skin even where fabric covered it. His smile grew larger and more roguish as he got within a hair's breadth of Keith. His hands raked through Keith's hair and the half-Galra stopped breathing, calico eyes meeting pure blue.

“This is for ripping my pants,” he said with a wicked grin. “Hope your luck is shit this year.”

And before Keith could sink his claws into the dancer’s hands, his mask was falling off his face. It was almost in slow motion—Keith felt the black fabric peel away, red scarf revealing snarling lips, a worried brow, and ivory skin marred with purple. His heterochromatic eyes rounded in fear, pupils wide, and dark, and _scared_.  

The man stood before him, cerulean irises wide and curious. They roved over Keith’s face, mapping out each pool of purple, as Keith’s raven-and-gold mask slipped from his hands. The Altean’s mouth had fallen open. Red started to pool under the blue markings on his cheeks, showing in tiny flakes beneath the gold mask.

Keith couldn’t help the yelp as warm sun hit his face, and though he tried to cover himself with his cloak, members of the crowd had already seen. Their attention turned from the dance… to him.

The murmurs turned into jeers and then into roars: “Half-breed! Mongrel! _Monster!”_ A few children screamed.

And before the dancer could break out of his reverie, before Keith could pick up his knife, someone in the crowd hurled something hard and heavy, grunt filled with rage and fear. It slammed against Keith’s head, and his knees hit the hard, unvarnished wood. He dimly wondered how the dancer could have been barefoot on this thing.

Within seconds he was hit by anything the crowd could find—empty cups, overripe fruit, half-eaten bread, gravel—and he tried to cover his face with his hands again. Anyone who couldn’t throw something ran in the fear of disease. Keith’s claws cut into his face but he didn’t have the presence of mind to retract them. Blood dribbled over his lips and down his throat.  
  
Unseen to him, Lotor smiled in his pavilion, encouraging the crowd to, “Yes, show this half-breed a proper encore.”

Keith had his eyes screwed shut, but he could still feel the gaze of angry eyes boring into his skull. They morphed into a single yellow glare, spitting at him and smacking at him and leaving red welts on his back and arms and sides. Purple bruises joined his purple splotches in his mind’s eye, and Lotor’s voice is loudest in his ears: “Disgusting. Revolting. Vermin. _Plague-bringer!_ ”

He felt the weight of everything thrown at him—food, stones, words—pressing him down into the ground. He wanted to sink and never rise again.

It was an eternity before a shadow fell over him, and Keith realized slowly that the crowd had gone silent. The shouting had ceased. He peered up through his fingers, and for a split second all he could see was red.

The dancer was there, and Keith watched him tear his jangling sleeve off in slow motion, and gently dab his face. Keith realized his forehead was bleeding, but he couldn’t feel it. All he could sense was the heat from the man’s hand, the gentle caress, the... pity in his eyes.

But not a bad pity, Keith realized, because he didn’t quite feel the anger that he’d expect. No, it was not a bad pity. It was a pity of understanding, of having been there, having objects and words thrown his way, having wanted to receive the kindness he now was sharing.

“You there,” a too-familiar voice boomed over everything, shattering the precious moment. “Altean scum.”

The dancer straightened, graceful as ever, but he didn’t move from Keith’s side. Instead, he helped him up with a smooth movement, refusing to answer the man in the throne. He pulled Keith to his side to steady the bleeding man.

The crowd began to murmur, their attention darting between Lancelot and Lotor as their Galra Lord frowned. He demanded again, “Why are you interfering? Get away from the half-breed.”

“No,” was all the dancer said, smiling at Keith now. Keith shrunk into himself under his intense gaze, bright as the sky above them. The sun glared, unforgiving from above, but the bare shoulder he was drawn to was warm against his cheek. He could see the jagged place where the sleeve had been ripped away. Keith looked nervously away—at anything else—and locked eyes with Lotor.

“What is your name,” Lotor said, “so I can know who defies me.” A demand, not a question. Keith watched how he chewed on every word. Every movement—raise of the brow, purse of the lips—was precise.

“Lancelot, but my friends call me Lance,” the dancer said proudly and confidently. He gave a little bow and wink to Lotor as he spoke.

“Lance,” and the word dripped like cyanide off of Lotor’s teeth. Lance stiffened when Lotor tasted his name, and Keith felt him try not to shiver. “You are to step away from the vermin, or be arrested for defying the direct orders of your Lord.”

“Uh, yeah. No.” Lance stepped in front of Keith now, and Keith missed the warmth of his skin. The crowd still leered up at Keith, some covering their children, and he felt flames of anger lick up from his core even as his hands shook in fear. “I don’t accept orders from assholes.”

The small noises in the crowd ceased. Lotor’s eyes blazed, hands tightening around the arms of his throne.

“How dare you dare speak to me this way, you piece of filth?” he spat, hands shaking. The guards around him shifted nervously, and the white-haired Champion’s eyes kept shifting between Lance and Keith.

“Come on, man, do I have to spell it out for you?” Lance’s eyes rolled, so casual for this tense atmosphere. “I’m an _Altean_. This asshole has treated me better in in the last twenty minutes than you have treated my people in a hundred years, and he fell into my tent and tore my pants,” Lance gestured towards Keith, then himself, as he spoke, and Keith tugged his cloak around his head again.

“You have no respect and no right to compare me and my father the Emperor to this half-breed,” Lotor hissed. He took a moment to glare brightly at Keith, yellow eyes like molten lava. Keith could see spittle fly off his tongue. “Silence.”

“No,” Lance shrugged, his smile fading into something more intense, something angrier—something sincere. “But you can eat my _ass_."

And now Lance looked back at Keith, and Keith understood why the hottest flames burned blue.  
  
Lotor's face turned an angry, eggplant purple. 

“For that, you will pay dearly,” Lotor intoned, and with a long, slender purple finger, he waved a horde of guards forward to spill from behind his throne. They weaved through the throng, pushing the silent masses out of the way and surrounded the stage. In the corner of his eye, Keith saw the Champion, golden hand glowing bright. Thace had maneuvered himself to the head of the crowd, watching carefully.

Instinctively, Keith lowered himself a bit, fingers flexing and teeth bared. He snuck a glance up at Lance, who looked eerily calm. The dancer stepped closer to Keith, though, as if shielding him from the army.

“Now, let's see,” Lance said, crossing his arms and pointing at each of the guards circling him. His voice was mocking, feigning fear. “One, two, three, four... So there’s ten of you, and _one_ of me.” He sniffled a few theatric tears. "  Sacré bleu, what the hell do I do?”

The guards closed in on Lance, his red-covered reflection shining in their dark armor. The dancer continued to faux-swoon, but Keith’s fear was not a sham. He grabbed Lance’s arm in panic. Lance’s head jerked, gaze directed back at the half-Galra as if he had somehow forgotten him.

“Ah… I’d start running if I were you,” Lance whispered, a joke in his voice but a storm brewing in his eyes. He shook off Keith’s hands and pulled out a handkerchief from his waistband. A guard crouched to pounce onto Lance, but he sneezed, and in a cloud of sweet purple smoke—he disappeared.

The crowd started moving again, wildly stampeding away from the stage as more soldiers rushed towards Keith. Thace tried to stop them with a shout.  
  
The half-Galra took the dancer’s advice, and _he ran._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1This translates to “The Luminous Lance! Starting at 1pm” in very mediocre French.[return to text]  
> 2This means “Beast Tongue” in probably terrible German. We tried.[return to text]
> 
> a/n: hnnnnnggggg so excited to be updating this fic!!! thank you so much to everyone who has read, liked, kudosed, commented, and shared it around : ' ) chip and i have really enjoyed working on this and i cannot wait to share more. blessings of toast god to you all! - bread

**Author's Note:**

> _Rating will change as the fic progresses._
> 
> come scream with us on tumblr @ [breadpoetsociety](https://breadpoetsociety.tumblr.com) and [chipofmintchocolate](https://chipofmintchocolate.tumblr.com) and on twitter @ [breadpoetsociet](https://twitter.com/breadpoetsociet) and [chipofmint](https://twitter.com/chipofmint).


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